April Storms
by power0girl
Summary: This is a continuation of the amazing story written by PaperPrince 'April' Please go read it first. Though if you don't (which would be a shame, it's divine), her story has Sherlock the victim of an April Fool's Day prank at the hands of Anderson and the results of it are in this chapter. That's all you need to know. M for language and possible later content.
1. Chapter 1

This is a continuation of the amazing story written by PaperPrince 'April' Please go read it first. Though if you don't (which would be a shame, it's divine), her story has Sherlock the victim of an April Fool's Day prank at the hands of Anderson and the results of it are in this chapter. That's all you need to know.

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Sherlock comes back to himself fuzzily, as the car pulls up to Speedy's and levers himself out. Sober, this kind of muffling of his senses has only happened a few times. When he was a boy and his beloved Redbeard had to be put down, as well as the time when he overheard John and The Woman discussing their attraction for him. In this haze he doesn't hear the cabbie yelling angrily at him, or him parking up, still cursing and getting out of his cab.

Sherlock just continues to the door, letting himself in without sparing the irate young man a single look. As the cabbie is marching up the pavement, to hammer on the door, a voice calls out to stop him.

'Wait, wait, I'm sorry, what's wrong?' Turning he sees Dr. Watson half running the last few meters to him. Giving the door a narrow-eyed look he turns and smiles at the more tractable of the two gentlemen. 'Dr. Watson, I'm terribly sorry, but Mr. Homles has gone up without paying me. That after not even speaking one word, the whole drive, even though I tried baiting him as best I could, so I was already a bit narked.'

Feeling the day's tension, resulting in a ground glass feeling in his left shoulder, John sets down the carrier bags he's ladened with and breathes deeply. As he straightens, listening, he realises he knows this particular cabbie and that he drives them back and forth from the Yard quite a few times a week. 'Ah, Trevor, good to see you mate.' Quickly he pulls out his wallet, 'From the Yard, yeah?' and pulls out the approximate amount plus an extra fiver to smooth the young man's feathers. John thinks he's a nice guy and a great cabby, and these days John is very careful to note good cabbies.

'Ah, you don't have to do that Dr. Watson, I'd just have double billed him next time.' The young man smiles as he quickly gets back into his car for the rest of his shift, but just as he's into gear and about to drive off he calls out to John, who is juggling keys and bags at the door, 'There's something wrong with him Doc, I said science is devil worship and he didn't even blink, 'softly, softly,'* yeah?'

Shifting everything to one hand he nods and waves, as the car smoothly peels away from the curb. Turning his key in the lock he lets himself in and starts for the stairs. Resolutely he squares his shoulders and starts upwards, silently wondering what waits for him upstairs.

*'softly, softly' is part of an Australian phrase: 'Softly, softly, catchy monkey.' Which my partner's Auzzi boss says refers to having to move very quietly and slowly to catch a monkey for dinner. And as it is to be your dinner you better be extra slow and extra quiet or you'll go hungry. So this applies to anything you want badly, or you think is going to be really tricky to do. Cause monkeys, who can climb faster/higher than us cannot be "easy" to hunt!

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When Lestrade gets back from his meet 'n' greet with Mycroft carrying his and Sherlock's lunch he is surprised by the number of grinning faces he sees - theirs is not a work place prone to levity. So confused by the evidence of good spirits he glances back and checks he's gotten off on the correct floor.

His destination affirmed he scans the desks, for someone who is acting normal, at which point he notices a couple things:

a) Not everyone is actually smiling in humour, a good number have the 'going along with a bad joke smile' on their faces. Distinct by a tightness to the eyes, a rigid almost frozen set to the expression, as though they don't want to be singled out for not finding it funny.

b) Donovan and Anderson (as well as a half dozen others) really did think it was funny, desperately so. One chap up from narcotics is still giggling quietly and theatrically wiping a tear from his eye.

c) There was a heap of extremely expensive roses on the floor. A quick look said there was at least 80 quid, if not well over 100£ worth lying there.

d) Sherlock is gone, his bellstaff is gone too, so either off home, the coroner, or off to the roof.

Turning to a group of the uncomfortable people, he suppresses a niggling worry and starts issuing orders. 'You, go find something that can hold two dozen roses, run across to the shops if you have to.' Dropping his gaze to dismiss the first, he looks to the second and keeps going, 'You carefully pick up this lot, lie them out gently on a flat surface. And you,' locking gaze with the last person, a competent officer named Ruby Dailey, 'with me.'

Walking right past the hyenas, who have started up laughing again, Lestrade heads for his office which he closes and locks after the officer follows him in. 'Okay Ruby, what the fuck is going on and why is there a pile of long stem red roses on the floor out there.'

Now in the privacy of the office, her face has twisted into a scowl and she sighs, 'It all happened so fast and with the rumours I guess the bastards took us all in, we all thought the same thing he did...' She looks straight into Lestrade's eyes, no guile, pure, truthful intent only, 'If I had known I'd have told you, I would have stopped it, I would have, but it went wrong so fast!'

'Okay...' Lestrade waits either for her to explain more or finish her strange exclamation.

She sighs again and rubs fretfully at her forehead, 'Sherlock Holmes was working on those files for you...' She pauses trying to gather her words and his worry is joined by a sick, sinking feeling he's failed to protect his friend, from his team, again!

'So when a delivery guy shows up with these flowers we were all shocked. No one seemed to know who they were for, even Sherlock glanced up, then went back to work. But then the delivery guy walked straight over to Sherlock.' Pacing a bit in the room she kicks out at the chair leg knocking it back into the wall, 'He looked so fucking confused, like, "why would someone see fit to give ME flours?" And yeah, he's a dick, but I'm sure he can't physically be that much of a dick all the time, he'd never have the energy to do his "consulting."'

'But then,' Ruby slumps into the chair, 'you could see he figured out who might have sent it. Keeping in mind this all happened in a very, very short period of time, like three steps of the delivery guy.'

Lestrade who is leaning against the edge of his desk nods, not at all liking where this is going and mentally writing his team up already. 'And then?'

'Well he got embarrassed, even blushed a bit and stood there with the flowers in his hands gazing at them.' All the agitation has gone from Ruby's frame now, her fingers clamped under the edges of her thighs, her elbows tucked into her midsection, 'I started to wonder if they were from Dr. Watson, as Mr. Holmes had stopped looking confused and instead was looking a bit thankful, happy, I don't know, but he knew who they were from...or he thought he did.'

Suddenly her right hand comes up and slaps down on her thigh hard, the sound sharp in the room, 'Then that twat Jenkins from narcs tells him to look at the card and...and he does...'

Lestrade watches in horror, as Ruby pops up out of her seat and kicks his filing cabinet three, or four times, before rounding on him.

Her voice harsh and strident she continues, 'He looked so happy, for a second, so happy his hands were shaking as he pulled the card out of the flowers and then he read it and it was like watching a person's soul die.' Her hands flail randomly, pushing the assumed reaction away, 'Yes I know that sounds stupid, but his eyes stopped expressing anything, he went back to his "animated marionette" look that made half the force think he was a freak in the first place.'

Lestrade blinks at her sudden proximity and, frankly, her volume, which is steadily climbing.

Her arms stiff at her sides, hands balled into fists, she's leant ever so slightly onto her forefoot, as if to blow Lestrade over with her voice alone. 'I was so angry for him. But I know, too well, what it's like to alienate yourself from your co-workers so I didn't tear a strip off them. And now I feel awful I didn't!' Then she realises she's practically shouting in her superior officer's face and steps back, colouring in embarrassment.

Lestrade gives her a moment and then prompts her again, 'So he..?'

Falling into the chair, again, she props herself up against the wall, 'He crushed it in his hand, which by the today's date, I assume revealed it was an April Fool's Day prank. Then he grabbed his coat and was out the door before the bastards started rolling around laughing.'

Lestrade, being the good DI he is, waits her out a few more minutes, while desperately wanting to rush off to check the roof, but waiting is soon rewarded. 'Donovan, Anderson and Jenkins started it all and other than them there's maybe five or so others who seem "in on it", though it was the three of them that planned it out and paid for the flowers. I can write down the names if you like, but...'

Lestrade waves her off, 'No need, I saw the hyenas out there, I know which ones they are and I have no doubt who bankrolled this prank. Mark me, they are going to get a surprise today.' With a grim set to his face he unlocks his door and dismisses Constable Dailey, but not without seeing the three still clustered together near the desk the roses are now gathered on; still laughing. Firstly producing his mobile Lestrade texts the front desk clerk, to ask if Sherlock left the building, then to John, to ask him to get home fast as possible, citing the possibility of a 'danger night'. Relaxing his spine into a slump he strolls over to them, pausing to chat with a few officers along the way, he receives a text from the front desk saying: "Sherlock Holmes blew out of the building a while ago". Relieved he continues moving closer, leaving his mobile out and starting up a recording as he approaches the group. He discreetly starts documenting the officers derogatory comments, which have slid into the inflammatory based upon Sherlock's supposed sexuality. Grimacing at how badly they were getting themselves into trouble, he steps closer before they can say something that will truly cause their automatic dismissal and clears his throat.

'Well, what's going on then?'

Donovan greets him with a particularly bitter smile that she often wears around Sherlock, with her lips stretched wide but pinched together with a severe pressure. Jenkins smirks nastily, 'We pulled one over on that boffin toff for April Fools, we did. It was spectacular, well worth the price at the posh florist's.'

Swiftly letting his eyebrows climb and fall in inquiry, 'Was it just the three of you?'

Anderson laughs, 'Yeah, 120£ cut three ways is a manageable price after all.' he smiles confidently, and Lestrade sees he's pretty chuffed with himself, they all are. They have finally gotten one over on Sherlock Holmes, but Lestrade is about to ruin the moment.

'Right, I'm writing the three of you up for harassment in a work setting, causing a negative atmosphere. Congratulations you've each an ASBO and a months suspension.' He watches as the three work through the shock, confusion and then anger, and as they start to defend themselves he brings up his left hand, still holding the mobile with the recording app clearly still running. 'Don't, as a friend I'm saying don't make the hole deeper or you'll serve time on this, I guarantee.'

Donavon, in shock, shakes her head, 'Why?'

Lestrade just looks at her, 'You are being charged with criminal Harassment with the intent to harm and humiliate. You have, for years, been adversarial with a vulnerable individual, which has escalated today. As such, the situation will be investigated and evidence sought, while you are on leave. If you are found to be in contact with co-workers, with the intent to influence their recall of the events in question, you will be made redundant and criminal charges of evidence tampering will be also brought against you. I expect you all, now, to go, collect your things and leave.' He stares each person in the eye for a moment, 'Am I clear on that?'

Vague mumbles of 'Yes sir.' come from the three, as they finally move off to do as they are bid. Lestrade sighs to himself, as he accepts he's going to have to send, at least the people openly laughing at the situation, to what amounts to Sensitivity Training. Looking at the lot of them staring back at him, some horrified faces, mostly relieved ones, as they all realise, the DI is going to actually address the long standing bullying of Sherlock Holmes.

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John, is just trying to get his debit card back from the chip and pin machine, when his mobile chimes. Irritated with the distraction when he was selecting his cash back options (none thank you, damn it I hit 20£ button by mistake!) he ignores it for the time being.

Shortly thereafter, when the second text alert for that message comes, a second message altogether comes in, and then a third. Pausing on a bench outside the store, a bare four blocks from the flat, John pulls out his mobile. The words in Lestrade's text "danger night" stand out, as well as, Mycroft telling him a car is on route to collect him. So he grabs up the bags and starts to walk, only to see a familiar black car pull up; Anthea pushing the door open from her spot, so he can clamber in as the car barely comes to a stand still.

Then John has to get everything to the front door and a hire car is in his way, but with a second glance he sees it is Sherlock getting out and walking to the flat door as though he doesn't hear the cabby calling out to him. Cursing to himself, knowing a danger night is looming, John deftly distracts the cabbie, who turns out to be one of their regular drivers.

Finally in the flat he can see straight away that something isn't right with Sherlock. He's stood in the middle of the room looking in a vague direction over near his chair, for the life of him seeming as though he wants to go sit down but cannot summon up the nerve.

With a nod to himself, John places all the bags on the kitchen counter he cleaned off, before going out to the shops and turns toward his friend, 'I'm making tea, fancy a cup?' No one is more surprised than John, when Sherlock jumps at his voice and spins around to look at him with wide eyes and a touch of colour staining his cheekbones.

Leaving the kitchen, John reminds himself that there wasn't really all that much information in Lestrade's text about this "danger night". As such he looks his friend over carefully, as though assessing him in A&E. 'You alright mate? I didn't mean to give you a fright, figured you'd heard me coming up the stair.'

Sherlock straightens up and gathers himself as John walks closer, obliterating all but the stain of colour to his cheeks with his efforts. 'No John, I was half in my mind palace just now and didn't have as good a recall as usual. But, yes, I would like some tea.'

'You sure your alright mate? Greg was awfully worried about you just now.'

Sherlock gives him his usual pole axed expression, 'Who?… Oh yes Gavin Lestrade.' Then his face does pale, 'What did he tell you?'

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I hope that was enjoyable, I will be adding more later this week and then (hopefully get back to Chimera)


	2. Chapter 2

John suppresses the urge to call Sherlock on his obviously faked recall and shrugs his right shoulder, 'Just that something happened and he was worried that you'd gone off in a mad rush.' Falling gently into "parade rest" John watches and waits as Sherlock's keen eyes dart about his flatmate's person to validate his story.

'Right… Good, I…' Much like John's first visit to 221B, Sherlock flits about; he takes his coat off and throws it at the chair in the corner, picks up a random book from the coffee table and tosses it onto the table under the cow skull, a few strides later is grabbing up some loose scraps of paper and collapsing in his chair staring at - and yet through - the papers in his hands.

John watches every move while making the tea, something Sherlock would have called him on if he was in a better state of mind. Wordlessly he puts away the groceries while the tea steeps and lays a tray with their mugs and a plate for each of them with biscuits. And if Sherlock's plate has twice the amount, well it'll tell John exactly how bad things are if he doesn't notice.

Thus armed he heads into the room and distributes the small meal, placing everything on the tables beside their chairs. Settling in his with his mug in hand John looks carefully at his friend again, 'Sherlock, don't forget the tea is there till it's cold, yeah?'

Sherlock nods once, his eyes not loosing that look of being focused on a point somewhere down in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, and picks up his tea and drinks a bit down. 'John, under what circumstances would you make an obvious romantic gesture to a paramour at their place of work?'

John's eyebrows dance up and back down in a flash, 'Hmm, I'm not sure, I've never done it.' Shrewdly he avoids his friends eyes as sets aside his tea in favour of a biscuit, 'Why do you ask?'

Trying a too hard to appear nonchalant, Sherlock shifts his cup from hand to hand, 'It happened at the Met today, a large number of roses were delivered and I don't understand why one would do that.'

'Ah,' John nods, 'it does seem a bit of an odd timing, to do so today, but mostly people do that to let a person know they think they are special enough to make a fuss over.' He watches as Sherlock nods once and starts consuming his biscuits in a distracted, yet compulsive, manner.

Knowing this isn't just a case of social convention, long ignored, confusing his friend again, John pauses before asking, 'Was there anything else?' Sherlock startles slightly less this time, so John just gazes deeply into his flatmate's beautiful sea-glass eyes, as a flicker of worry, shame and fear dance through them.

For long moments they don't move and John feels a pleasant warmth uncurl in his stomach, same as always, spreading through his body as he watches his friend struggle to respond to a simple question, a deep and compelling affection.

In a reassuring tone John comments,'I'm not trying to wind you up, mate.' he waits a moment to see if the comment even registers, then; 'Look Sherlock, why don't you just tell me why your brain seems to be hovering on the edge of needing a "cold boot", to borrow a term, and cut all this out.'

Those alluring eyes flit to the floor as Sherlock's shoulders slump slightly, 'I'm just tired of being their portable punching bag. I've been trying to break it down into lessons I can learn and use for The Work, but there is nothing more to learn from their hatred.' he sits there, for all the world, looking like he expects John to ridicule him for missing something "normal" about the confrontation.

John's world becomes misted and red, with the speed of his "fight" response being triggered, it is as though a scarlet veil has been drawn over his eyes. He knows Sherlock being preyed upon has this effect on him, but this occasion is especially bad due to the long standing bullying from the people at the Met. Hands clenching into tight fists, his frame hums with the need to dent someone for causing his best friend to feel this way. He pulls in an enormous breath, expanding his lungs as much as he can and then exhales to a thirty-count; watching as the veil lifts a bit and John can see his best friend looking towards him with a fear-tinged, wide-eyed look. Wordlessly he pulls out his mobile and rings Lestrade, but it rings out so he leaves a short, blunt message, 'What the fuck Lestrade?'

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock flinch at the tone of voice, so sharp and snappy, one could easily believe it would draw sparks, like a hammer hitting iron. Leaning forward, his shins up against Sherlock's chair, John balances on his elbows perched on wide places knees, the agitated energy humming through his limbs, he waits a breath holding Sherlock's eyes. 'You should not have to put up with those plonkers, you are above them in every way.'

John's words bring a sharp jolt to play along the tight frame, then a subtle relaxation of the neck and shoulders happens and John knows Sherlock will explain it to him now. 'They sent me the flowers, easily 100£ worth, and I couldn't think straight. I fell right into their trap, thinking who on earth would tolerate me enough to send me flowers.'

John just leans forward on his arms and waits, he knows Sherlock isn't done explaining, 'And then the note said Happy April Fool's Day and I was so angry. I felt like they were all laughing at me, and yet a part of me was angry that the flowers weren't fro…'

Cutting off mid-word, Sherlock falls silent, but John picks up the narrative with a inquisitive statement, 'You were angry that they took something, hopefully appreciated and anticipated, and made it a vehicle for humiliation. You were mad that they weren't from me?' Slowly, so as not to give his friend room to over-react and think John is upset by this revelation, John settles back into this chair so he can see and still be on the edge of Sherlock's personal space.

'You should know by now, Sherlock, I do think you deserve to be fussed over, but I also know you despise public fussing. Unless I'm fawning over your deductions, it is not something you want to have brought up in front of anyone else.' Not shifting one bit John locks his gaze to keep Sherlock from ducking his head, 'But if you want someone to show those people your special, say the word and I'll tattoo it onto their fucking foreheads, I'll be so obvious.'

And just like that the confusion and tension bleed out of Sherlock, as John found and tapped the keystone of his worry, smashing it through! Sherlock revels for a moment or two, but then a little voice starts up in his mind palace with questions, eventually he voices the most insistent. 'But why?'

Unsurprised by the query John relaxes into his seat a bit, 'Which "why" would that be now?' Ticking them off one by one on his fingers, John makes his suggestions, 'Why would I exercise restraint? Why would I make my opinion of you known, or Why would I care for you?'

Swallowing reflexively, his eyes widening, Sherlock tracks back and forth between John's eyes looking to see if he is being serious, or taking the piss. He assumes his friend wouldn't do that to him, but is so very insecure that Sherlock has to question it. 'No one cares for me John, I am a sociopath and nothing can change that.'

Snorting his disagreement, John grabs one of Sherlock's wrists, pulling as well as twisting slightly, he positions Sherlock's hand, palm up, on his own knee and slots his own wrist into the open palm. When the detective hesitates in closing his long dexterous fingers, John uses his other hand to close his friend's grasp around the wrist.

Sherlock for his part is surprised by the whole manoeuvre, but when he feels John settle his first two digits over John's pulse point his eyebrows vanish up into his hairline. 'What…?' comes the partial question.

Shoulders squared, manner calm and positive John smiles, 'Ask your questions Sherlock. Ask me and you will know.'

Sherlock grips the wrist a bit hard at first, but then finds his feet a bit and gentles his fingers. 'Why would you exercise restraint if it was something you would normally do?'

John's open face crinkles as he smirks at his flatmate, 'Because, more importantly than my wishes Sherlock, is the fact that you have always seemed to dismiss sentiment as something without use. I would not involve you in sentimental behaviours that you seemed to have little interest in; I'm happy to keep my wishes to myself.'

The solid beat of the heart under Sherlock's fingertips actually slows down, as though answering these questions is relaxing. John smiles as he continues to answer, 'Not to say I'd suffer in silence, I am happy to defer to another person's comfort level, but if I truly felt I needed to express myself I will. Like now.'

A long pause filled with steady thumping, then, 'Why would you make your opinion of me known to anyone?'

Nodding along with himself, John looks down at their hands, 'Because, not even touching what your family life was like, society does not treat intelligent people very well. Either they learn very early to pretend not to be as smart as they are, to feign fitting in, or they are ostracised, you my friend do not deign to pretend.'

At that Sherlock smiles a tiny bit, 'No John, I couldn't see the point in pretending I was less than I am and as you surmised, this did not go over well. But what does that have to do with anything, your evading my question John.'

Chuckling John's fingers grab onto Sherlock's hand, 'Because, if this is true, as you admitted, then I believe strongly, you deserve to have someone tell those asshats that you are amazing and shame on them for not seeing it.'

'I see.' Sherlock murmurs as he listens to the slow study thrum. He knows that if John was feeling his pulse it would be thready and quick now, his worry over this conversation clear.

'Well then, most obviously, why do you care at all for me. By all accounts I am an awful person to you, I do not understand why you are protecting me and not in their ranks making fun of the person you have to live with.'

'Because, Sherlock, I think people should treat others as they wish to be treated, and I am happy to show them that they are getting what they deserve from you.' His pulse not quickening a whisker, 'If you want me to, I will treat you the way I believe you deserve to be treated, but that is up to you.'

Feeling the even thrum of John's steady heart Sherlock is surprised, eyes still locked with John's he sees a warmth in his friends expression he didn't expect. Playing for time he pulls away and looks on as John too pulls back, calmly scooting his chair back to where it usually rests. Eventually he nods once to himself, "Do I have to respond to that now?"

John's smile blooms and widens, 'Of course not.'

xxxxxx [everything after this is new]

Four days later John is sitting in his chair, reading the paper, waiting for Sherlock to get up and decide they should be doing something exciting. His day off has been slow and boring, for the first three hours and John would be happy for something more active. Provided there is a relatively low mortality rate, of course, when Sherlock strides up the stairs two at a time. John turns to say something, about not realising he'd been out when, Sherlock cuts him off by launching into speech.

'I have been thinking about what you said and I have been horribly conflicted.' Not giving John any time to do anything short of lowering his paper, he continues. 'As you said, I have always considered myself above plebeian behaviours like romantic overtures such as the giving or receiving of flowers. To be honest, I never thought I'd have a best-friend either, so I had to reassess why I held these behaviours to be plebeian.'

Coming to a stop facing away from John, hovering beside his music stand, Sherlock pauses to gather his thoughts on the matter. 'I can only conclude that it is mostly my observance of the results of "romance" that lead me to believe it is ill fated and not a wise course of action, as it leaves one open to such damage.'

'Ah, Sherlock, but to, both, risk that awful damage and search for such a rewarding thing as "romance", is what it is all about.' John calmly folds the paper as he speaks and tucks it away on a side table.

Sherlock, having tilted his head so he could see John out of the corner of his eye, nods once and moves forward to fuss with the edge of the muslin curtains in the tall, front windows. 'Then I guess it is illogical for me to be so wary of such emotional morasses, very well. I think you should treat me exactly as you "feel I deserve".' Staring at him out of the corner of one eye his expression tightens, 'I do extract one promise though.'

At Johns immediate nod he continues, 'If I ever, at all, feel uncomfortable, you have to promise you will stop.' There is no immediate response and Sherlock spins around in shock to find John smiling at him.

'Sherlock, you daft bugger, if you think I should move out tomorrow I would. I would not be bloody happy, but I'd go.' he shrugs up his right shoulder once in casual admittance, 'I doubt I'd STAY away, but I'd go, to give you your space, for a bit. Of course I'd listen to anything you say on the matter.'

Sherlock resumes his blank assessment of the curtains, nodding slowly along with his friend's comments, 'You see that as an example of how I should be dealt with?' his voice crackling a bit on the untried phrases, deeply concerned he's going too fast. 'Allowed to have what I yearn for, even if it is destructive and counterproductive?'

'…Yes…' John husks out from his seat, 'I would give you anything…but I draw the line at recreational drugs, anything else is fine.' Sherlock nods turning back away from his friend. A long moment of silence stretches out like soft toffee as John waits to hear if Sherlock thinks this is good enough. Long after a less patient person would have shouted or cajoled an answer out of the detective a single slow nod is all John gets as an answer, but that is more than enough.


End file.
